


Songbird

by aguardian



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AC2, Gen, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguardian/pseuds/aguardian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That had been years ago, only once, only one. They were friends, to be sure, but he could not ask the eagle to kill for him, not again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> Venice, circa 1480

The ebb and wake of the mass around him carried him like a leaf through a river, and Leonardo relaxed into it, balancing his market purchases in his arms, and thinking carelessly of what else his new _bottega_ lacked. He had only spent mere weeks in this city, but Venice had accepted him into its clockwork with little trouble.

He mentally counted his coins, brow furrowing a bit as he realized that perhaps it had not been so wise to buy enough supplies to fill his store room, and recreate the clutter of his workshop in Firenze. It would not feel as home without it, he supposed. His rather wry thoughts were interrupted as a slight opening in the crowd allowed him a glimpse of a merchant stall, quite distinctly unlike its neighbors.

The artist paused, an island in the flow of bodies, and looked upon the collection of gilded cages, which were stacked and hung neatly about a low-roofed shop. Its owner sat bored amongst the tumult of brilliant color and song, evidently deaf to the chirruped music around him.

Leonardo glanced attentively to the shifted feathers and wings, admiring the plethora of tiny movements as some flew restless circles behind the bars, as some clustered against their fellows for comfort, and as some tilted their throats to trill their songs to unhearing ears. _Beautiful_ , he could not help but think, the appreciation dulled somewhat by his deepened regret that he had spent so much today. If only he had seen this shop sooner.

He excused himself through the passing townspeople, moving to stand at the edge of the stall of songbirds. A closer look granted him more detail, and he involuntarily took note of the shape of one’s tail feathers, the mix of paints needed for the underside of one’s wings. They would be a delight to sketch, just perhaps not like this. A bird could only really be canvassed against the sky.

He thoughtlessly brushed a finger against the wooden bars, a silent promise to the feathered ones that they would be free. Much as he longed it though, he would not go so far as theft to grant them a chance at open flight. Besides, he could think of no better use for the coin he would earn, once his commission was finished.

The artist turned his back upon the stall to continue on to his workshop; however, a sudden shift in the crowd startled him, the townsmen at his sides turning around abruptly, and tersely hurrying off in the opposite direction. He could only blink, clutching his rolled canvases close as the multitude jostled past him.

It took several seconds for him to see the reason why, to catch the glint of light off polished armor and weapons. The large guard patrol herded the crowd before it in a nervous flock, prompting many to choose alternate routes to their destinations. No one wished to cross these supposed representatives of Venetian authority, not after witnessing so many public acts of “justice.”

Leonardo frowned in memory as he patiently moved to the edge of the path to wait them out, carefully averting his eyes and thinking back to the last time he had seen these self-important officials going about their rounds. The merchant they had terrorized at the time had barely escaped without injury, but any hopes of income had been dashed upon the streets in broken shards of pottery. No one had even been sure what the unfortunate man’s crime had been.

But bruises healed, merchandise could be replaced. This seemed to be the silent consensus of the crowd, who only looked away from these regular acts of violence, quickening their pace when they passed as if it made them any less guilty. However, Leonardo could not blame them, and indeed, could not bring himself to act any differently.

He could only stand by and hope that this patrol would sate themselves with pushing through the crowd, with “accidentally” knocking over piles of produce or rugs as they did. The merchants were to receive no such reprieve however, and the artist saw with rising dread that the stall he had just left seemed to be the soldiers’ target.

The shop owner was equally aware of this, and he stood to leave with a mechanical air of attempted nonchalance, the voices of his caged birds rising to sharp notes as they sensed the hostility on the air. However, the guards caught the man by the arm easily, forming ranks about him as they would for a prisoner. Leonardo frowned in empathy, but knew he could do no more than bear silent witness.

The words exchanged were rather unintelligible, though the artist did not need to hear them to guess at the wild accusations the guards were proclaiming. If the merchant was fortunate, he would get by with a single blow, and perhaps a loud demand to not repeat his supposed offense.

It quickly became evident that this would not be the case, when the captain of the patrol suddenly seemed to swell into a rage, sparked perhaps by the merchant’s attempt at a defense. Even passing townspeople started at the terrible crash of splintering wood, as the soldier swept a dozen cages from the table and onto the street.

Many of the coops fell open, scattering their occupants into the air, but many too remained closed, the still-trapped birds voicing their panic. Already the sound was distressing, but when the stomp of armored boots was added to the din, the twittering flared into shrill, soul-wrenching cries, as hollow bones were shattered, as fragile lives were lost. Carelessly, _heartlessly_ , the soldiers seemed only intent on destroying them as any other merchandise.

The shock and enraged disgust held him a moment, before Leonardo realized that he was sprinting forward, his purchased canvases scattering to the ground behind him. “Stop it – all of you, _stop_!”

His demand was ignored, but even the guard captain was startled as the artist threw himself amongst them. He bodily pushed past, shoving away a guard whose boot was mere inches from ending the life of a fluttering songbird, which struggled to escape on one broken wing.

The man, caught completely off balance, staggered and fell back into the street. Leonardo knelt swiftly and loosed the last animals from their damaged cages, scooping the injured one up, and allowing it to glide the short distance to a sheltered roof. However, just as he did so, a hand fisted into the cape at the back of his throat, choking him briefly, before hauling him to his feet.

He bit back a yelp as he was rather forcefully thrown against the wall of a shop, and suddenly the whole contingent of guards was around him, menacing and openly smug. Only then did he realize the weight of his actions, realize that the shopkeeper had slipped away during his interference. The artist shrank back a little involuntarily, berating himself inwardly much too late.

The captain stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest and loudly beginning to enumerate the nonexistent city laws that he had just crossed. Leonardo only held his tongue and his coiling anxiety, knowing tightly that he could do little but weather this.

His gaze wandered to the noon lit skies in search of some distraction, giving a quiet sigh weighted with exasperation, and a measure of nerves. He shifted restlessly as the guard continued to pile accusations upon him, the fear building in his chest, though he fought not to show it. He had seen how these men preyed upon the weak, gleefully breaking those already broken.

Though he knew this, and insisted it to himself like a mantra, he could not help but feel afraid, could not keep the evidence of it from his eyes. Leonardo only stared rather determinedly at the stillness of the Venetian skyline, his façade of calm brittle at best.

A sudden flick of red shifted on the rooftop across from him, and he started a little in surprise, quite abruptly realizing that the flash of sun he had caught was actually the figure of a man, clothed in white and slivers of crimson. At the sight, the desperation within him broke like a wave.

“Ez-!”

 _\--No_. Just as quickly, he stopped himself, forcibly biting his lip and silencing his own pointless cry for assistance. That had been years ago, only once, only one. They were friends, to be sure, but he could not ask the younger man to kill for him, not again. How could he plead for the other to plunge into this sea of enemies, this mess he had created himself? Dragging in a breath, the artist looked pointedly away.

The captain had turned to his men to wonder aloud at possible punishments, much to his comrades’ amusement, and Leonardo could only still and await their verdict. By this time, the pale shadow on the rooftops had vanished, making him wonder if it had only been a play of sunlight, a mirage to his panicked mind. Perhaps that was for the better.

A rush of unexpected wind brushed against his face, and Leonardo blinked in blank surprise as his vision was suddenly obscured by a blur of white. Just as quickly, he realized that the guard captain had collapsed, the body sprawled upon the ground and bleeding profusely from the throat.

The artist looked on in open disbelief as the phantom flicked between guards in a storm of movement and concealed blades, leaving a tail of dead weight hitting the ground. The young Assassin faltered only slightly as one guard retaliated, managing a glancing strike to his arm, but he swept past it as if he had not noticed, only burying his wrist blade into the offender’s chest.

The initial shock ebbed, and as the battle raged before him, Leonardo was suddenly aware of the many corpses beginning to choke the streets, the crimson rivulets beneath them threading into the dust. The smell of sweat and blood and human filth was suffocating, and Leonardo wavered, feeling a little faint.

He had never seen death from this proximity. The washed cadavers permitted to him for study were nothing, no more than subjects for furthered learning. But this… this was too much; the screams and the jerked spasms as blades were torn through faces and throats and still beating hearts. It took all his will to not plea for a stop, to only brace his trembling body against the wall behind him and watch.

Ezio had changed, this teenage boy he had so often glanced running amok in the streets of Firenze, often with his elder brother, often with young ladies on each arm. The brown eyes – from what little he could see past the white cowl – were different, betraying a clutched sorrow. They were old eyes, not his own.

It was not long before, just as abruptly, there was silence. The Assassin slowed to a halt as the last of his enemies fell, eyes passing over the many limp forms scattered at his feet. He murmured a quiet phrase that Leonardo did not catch, before turning a bemused gaze towards him.

His savior was apologizing to him for his delay, a rueful grin upon his lips, but the artist found that he could not speak, nor even really meet the other’s eyes. Leonardo looked to one side a little uneasily, a momentary urge to flee rising in him.

His bright eyes lingered on the other’s crimson-stained sleeves and imbalanced stance, and he cocked his head slightly, suddenly noticing – admittedly, quite involuntarily – the tensed deltoid, the stiffly held forearm. Strained left shoulder, he concluded, fortunately minor, but no doubt painful. He paused and glanced to the cages still strewn abandoned on the ground, remembered the songbird with the broken wing.

Only here did Leonardo finally return the gentle smile, placing a light hand on the other’s wounded shoulder and meeting his eyes rather insistently. The mere sight of the Assassin would bring in the city guards from all corners of the district, they both knew it, and Ezio accepted his proffered assistance just as mutely.

Leonardo led the way off the still deserted streets, taking the shortest path back to his workshop and deciding lightly that perhaps he was not meant to have filled his supply room. He could convert the space into a guest’s quarters perhaps, for this eagle that had inherently chosen its roost.

They exchanged a glance as they walked, the mutual thanks of brothers in bond. No words needed to be spoken.

Ending.


End file.
